Rectory of Correction (14 page)

‘Nonsense,' she said amiably, ‘it was but a tickle. Next time you come I'll introduce you to the judicial birch. Now, that will make you take notice, I'll warrant! With this little tickler,' she raised the cat and Charlotte flinched reflexively and blinked, ‘you won't even need to take a break.'

‘Oh, please, just for a minute...' Charlotte begged.

‘Hmmm, I'd have to call the chaps down and I know how you feel about uncovering in front of men...'

‘Please, I don't mind... I'll do anything...' At that moment it was only too true. Proud, capricious, wilful Lady Charlotte was quite vanquished. In her place quivered a pleading, broken girl, who would have sold her soul for even a few moments' reprieve from the unendurable flogging.

Still smiling, Prentice walked over to the wall where a telephone had been installed. She lifted the handset and cranked the handle of the machine a couple of times.

‘Sergeant Billings. The prisoner has had a dozen. You might care to inspect her condition before the second. No...' the vision in black leather's lip curled contemptuously, ‘she has no objection. She seems to have seen the error of her ways, in that regard at least.'

Charlotte's bottom felt as if it had been caressed with a blowtorch. The whole of her hindquarters throbbed with rhythmic pulses of pain. Terror of the impending continuation of the flogging vied with an overwhelming sense of shame. Still, she expected Constable Prentice to dress, or at least to put her drawers on, and there was enough curiosity still surviving in her feverish mind for her to blink in astonishment when the policewoman did nothing of the sort.

‘You are a pretty little chit,' Prentice said as they waited, ‘and I have thoroughly enjoyed thrashing you – not to mention your clever little tongue.' She walked over to the far wall of the dungeon. ‘I shall have to have a word with the Reverend, see if we cannot have you back here regularly.'

The words caused a cold prickle to travel down Charlotte's spine. She watched aghast as the policewoman fingered some ancient, ominous-looking ironmongery that was hanging on the wall.

‘We have so many interesting things down here – bilboes, branks, there is even an old rack. We never seem to get the chance to use them any more. Perhaps you would like to come and visit, once a week perhaps, to play with these toys?'

The iron device clanked against the wall. Charlotte licked her lips in horrified fear at the prospect. Constable Prentice turned from the device and smiled.

‘The answer, by the way my dear, is, “yes, ma'am”.'

‘Y-yes, ma'am,' Charlotte stammered.

 

 

 

‘Good morning, girls.' The Reverend smiled complacently at his class. ‘I have a lovely sunrise for you today.'

Amelia's stomach did a little flip at this. Somehow, she was not quite sure how, she had survived a month of the course, and she was now all too familiar with the routine of the Reverend's cheerless timetable. This period was set aside for studying the instruments of correction. The class was a favourite of none of the girls at the best of times, but a surprise could only be unwelcome.

The knock on the classroom door did not reassure her, nor the sight of the maid Faith, peeking anxiously in at the girls.

The Reverend regarded his maid gravely. ‘Well, girl, what is it?'

‘It's Mr Campion, sir. He is just coming. Rose has gone to help carry his things.'

The Reverend dismissed her and turned back to the class with a cold smile. ‘Our visitor has arrived, that is excellent. He will be demonstrating his collection of quirts and camel whips, girls.' He clapped his hands together. ‘To expedite the demonstration, you will all take off your skirts.'

Amelia barely blushed at this instruction. Nor did even she protest as once she might have done. There was a flurry of activity as six girls stood and removed their little skirts. Even Charlotte, though blushing furiously, obeyed the order without demur. It was remarkable, Amelia reflected, how the girl's demeanour had changed after her visit to the police station.

The girls had all folded their skirts neatly and put them in their desks, but had yet to resume their seats, when a low whistle from the door attracted Amelia's attention.

‘So these are your famous “flogging drawers”, Richard,' a male voice said. ‘Most amusing, I must say.'

‘Modest and practical, Jack, modest and practical,' the Reverend replied dryly.

Risking a glance, Amelia found that Jack Campion's eyes were fixed to her tightly-knickered crotch. The short man looked as disreputable as ever. He might have shaved but his suit was rumpled and his gold tooth glinted as he smiled.

‘Oh, yes,' he said quietly, his eyes flicking up to catch her own in his sharp gaze, ‘very modest!' Then he laughed.

Amelia clenched her fists and failed to stop the blush spreading to the roots of her hair. She cursed the brevity of the uniform blouse silently. The drawers were dreadfully revealing, and the blouse hem barely reached her waist, affording the grinning man a full view of her bizarre undergarment.

Rose had followed him in, hefting a long leather bag which, with a grunt, she set down on the table. She stood anxiously, waiting for a moment, before the Reverend's imperious wave gave her permission to beat a hasty retreat.

‘A monitor might be useful,' Campion said with a smile.

‘Of course,' the Reverend said. ‘I will leave the choice to you.'

Amelia tried to make herself look small and inconspicuous as Campion perused the class. Five other girls seemed to be doing the same.

‘Amelia, my dear,' he said at last, ‘lovely to see you again.'

Blushing despite herself, Amelia got up and followed his beckoning finger to the front.

‘Get them out, my dear, and lay them neatly on the table.'

Amelia blinked at this, then realised that, though he was staring at her bosom, he was referring to the bag. With relief she obeyed, pulling the leather quirts from the bag, one by one, and setting them out with all the relish she might have felt had she been handling poisonous snakes.

These quirts proved to be little whips, generally about the length of hunting crops, with braided leather or rawhide handles. Most had two flexible lashes, which varied from quite broad, light straps of leather, to one with thick rawhide thongs that clunked against the oaken table ominously as she laid it down.

‘Reverend, before I begin, is there a trestle handy?' Campion asked brightly.

‘Of course,' the Reverend replied. ‘Bella, Kirsty, fetch a trestle from the cupboard.'

By the time the thing was in place beside the table, Amelia had laid out a dozen grim-looking quirts in a row.

‘Right, you may take your place, Amelia.' Amelia suppressed a squeal as Jack Campion gave her bottom a pat. ‘I think I am ready to begin.'

 

‘The quirt,' Jack Campion said, lifting an elaborately braided example in reddish leather from the table, ‘is the usual riding whip of the whole western hemisphere, from the pampas to the plains. To the initiated the design and braiding will tell precisely where a rider, be they cowboy, hacienda owner or gaucho, hails from.

‘However,' he leaned forward and grinned at the class, ‘I would not wish to bore you young ladies with a dry lecture on the subject, so I have devised a little guessing game. First of all, I want you to write down the following names...'

Gretchen was first up. She clutched her list forlornly as she looked at the quirts on the desk.

‘Come along now, girl, Mr Campion has not got all day,' the Reverend Dawes said sharply from the station he had taken up at the back of the class.

Gretchen had been told to identify something called a ‘saddle quirt from the Sierra Culodoloroso'. She blinked helplessly at the implements on the desk. It was obvious she had no idea at all. In the end she just stuck her hand out at random and picked up a yellow, rawhide whip.

‘Over the trestle,' Campion said, taking the quirt from her with a smirk.

Gretchen positioned herself over the trestle, her bottom looking as if it must burst out of her flogging drawers at any moment. Amelia watched and waited, quite aghast.

Jack Campion waited a moment, considering the thing dangling from his hand. ‘A Culodoloroso quirt?' he said with a grin, flashing his gold tooth. ‘No.' Her bottom twitched in response to the word. ‘I think not.'

He moved like a striking cobra. His arm flashed and the quirt became a faint yellow blur. There was a sickening
thwuck
and her bottom vibrated briefly. Gretchen gave a deep gurgle of pain. He struck again with expert accuracy, cracking the tails across the very tops of the woman's thighs. Her knees dipped and she gasped in response. Gretchen was still hopping from foot to foot in an agitated fashion when he unleashed the third stroke.

This one was clearly the hardest. There was a more high-pitched
thwuck
of impact, closely followed by a tearing sound. The whiplash had split her flogging drawers across the middle. Pink flesh, bisected by a blooming welt of crimson, peeked out of a horizontal tear.

Gretchen was howling now, dipping at the knees and hopping from one foot to another, shaking her head like a Jack Russell with a rat, in a vain attempt to disperse the pain. Amelia found her mouth had gone dry just from watching. She could not take her eyes from the split drawers and revealed weals.

‘All right, stop that silly squawking and sit down,' the Reverend said. ‘I have had quite enough of you splitting your drawers, girl. How many pairs is that now?'

‘Twenty-seven, sir,' Gretchen sniffled.

Amelia suppressed a smile. It was true that Gretchen seemed to have spent most of the last month sewing in new panels.

‘Come and see me after the lesson, Gretchen. You are obviously incapable of learning and do not deserve the privileges the other girls enjoy. From tonight you will be stripped of the dignity of these garments. You will leave the dormitory and take up residence in the kitchen. There is an old dog basket there, which is more comfort than you deserve.'

There was a stunned silence, which the Reverend broke after a moment. ‘Amelia, why don't you stop smirking and see if you can do any better?'

The blood was pounding in her temples as she approached the table. Amelia was so fixed on the line of quirts that she was barely aware of Gretchen's gasp as the woman's fresh welts met the hard seat of her chair.

‘Pick the quirt from the region around Nalgas Rayado, please,' Jack Campion requested with a smile.

How to choose? She had no information. Amelia looked at the little whips, one after the other, with mounting despair.

‘Get a move on,' the Reverend said impatiently. Licking her lips, Amelia made her choice.

The quirt she picked looked no more like a whip from Nalgas Rayado to her than the others, but she had no intention of repeating Gretchen's foolishness in choosing one that was bound to hurt particularly. Instead, she chose the example with the thinnest, broadest tails. She picked up the quirt as if the thing might bite her, and handed it to Mr Campion.

Amelia took a deep breath and took up her position, bending over the trestle and gripping the far bar. She tried not to think about how well the position would expose her to the class, and to the watching men. Instead she listened with a hammering heart, for the verdict.

‘Afraid not, Amelia,' Jack Campion said in a voice that did not sound to her regretful in the least.

She gripped the bar more tightly and held her breath, praying she had picked the right quirt, in terms of pain, at least. The wait was not protracted.

Whooosh...
Thwuck
! Pain coursed through her. It felt as if her bottom was on fire. Amelia failed to stop a hiss of pain escaping. If that was how the lightest quirt felt, Amelia had not the least desire to try the rest.

Whooosh...
Thwuck
!

She howled. The beast had lashed precisely the same spot.

‘Be quiet, Amelia,' the Reverend said, ‘and do try to keep yourself still.'

‘She is certainly a jiggler, Reverend,' Campion said with a chuckle.

‘The girl is a dreadful fidget, but depend upon it, sir, by the time I have finished with her,' Dawes said quietly, ‘I shall teach her to take her strokes with more decorum.'

The third stroke was, again, the hardest. It lashed with real venom. She fought the overwhelming need to jump up and clutch her bottom. Somehow she hung on to the rail as she yelped helplessly.

Then it was over. She was sent back, blinking tears away, to apply her scalding bottom to the pitiless seat of her desk. There she sat, trying to forget the fearful throbbing in her rear. Thank God, she thought, for the provision of distraction; even as she had sat, Charlotte reluctantly stepped forward in answer to her name.

Amelia watched Charlotte stare blankly at the whips laid out on the table, and would have smiled if her bottom had not hurt quite so much. It was clear she did not have a clue. Amelia felt the tingle between her legs grow suddenly more urgent. As casually as she could, she slipped a hand over the spot and began stroking, in anticipation of seeing Charlotte's pert bottom being punished.